


no mortal man can win this day

by logicalspecs



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, based on miss peregrines home for peculiar children, brian may is a literal disney prince ngl, dont have to have read that to understand tho, freddie has gone through some s t u f f, it all goes wrong then it all goes right, john deacon just wants his bread man he doesnt deserve this, john is basically macgyver sorry i dont make the rules, roger taylor may or may not have hot pink eyes at one point, they all have honestly, tw manipulation at one point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-10-02 16:16:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17267312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/logicalspecs/pseuds/logicalspecs
Summary: John Deacon was normal. He played with his sister, he ate dinner with his family, he worked hard in school. He was definitely not peculiar in any way.Except he was.Desperate to protect his son, his father shipped him away to a home owned by one Jim Beach, where he meets others like him; Brian, the boy who spoke to animals, and Roger, who could shift into any form the he pleased. There's another boy at the home, they say his name is Freddie.Freddie scares him the most.[title from queen's 'a kind of magic']





	1. no bed of roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from queen's 'we are the champions'

Oadby, Leiscestershire. It was a small town, one of those places where it seemed as though everybody knew everybody. The streets were lined with small shops, the local business owners greeting potential customers as they passed, enticing them with bright words of the mysteries behind the swinging 'open' signs on their shop doors.

Nowadays, the shop windows scream with signs in technicolour, bold block letters saying 'SALE!'. No one knows anyone, not really. A young boy gazes wistfully into one of the stores, his eyes tracing the ridges of a guitar, his fingers lightly drumming to beat of a bass line playing in his head. His brown curls bob as he imagines himself playing that beautiful instrument, the strings dancing as he plucks them.

“John! Oi, Johnny, get away from there!” Julie's shrill voice pulls him out of his reverie, and he sends her a small smile, hopping off the window ledge.

“Sorry, Jules,” He mumbles, sparing one last glance at the window. His sister sighs dramatically behind him, and he can't help a small smile.

A familiar chime from his pocket sends him into motion, swearing under his breath. He grabs his sister's hand as he takes off, ignoring her indignant protest. 

He pulls her through the leisurely flow of people along the sidewalk, narrowly dodging a few puddles in the dips of the path, fresh with rainwater from last nights shower. He hears Julie's sneakers on the pavement behind him, and he focuses on them as they weave down the foggy streets of their small town. He slows their pace as they pass Bulwer Rd, and Julie grabs his arm, bringing them both to a walk.

“What the hell was that about, Johnny?” She asks, and John takes a moment to catch his breath as they round on the local bakery. He can already smell the sweet pastries that are being baked inside, and he sends his sister a smile.

“'Ronnie promised me a loaf of sourdough if I got there before they closed,” He answers finally, and he can see a flicker of excitement in Julie's blue eyes before her expression changes to one of complete exasperation.

“You made me run two blocks for some bread?” John only grins in return, pushing the door to the bakery open. It's a quaint little store, with its large windows and dim lights. There's an old jukebox in the corner and a pile of quarters next to it, people playing music as they please. It's older music, but John doesn't mind. It's because of that rickety old jukebox that he really started to appreciate the bass guitar, and he would never be able to thank the machine enough for that.

Behind the counter, a girl in a green apron carefully adds foam to the top of a steaming coffee cup, her tongue poking out from between her lips. John watches her with quiet interest, and he can feel Julie's gaze burning against his neck. He sends her a small glare and she just rolls her eyes, wandering over to the glass display cases.

Veronica hands a woman in a pressed suit her coffee, before turning her attention to her two new customers.

“John, just in time,” she greets warmly, and John feels a small blush creeping up on his cheeks.

She turns to Julie and smirks, the younger girl shrugging in reply. 

Veronica turns on her heel to face a small oven on the left wall, flipping a switch and turning on its built-in light. 

“Baked to perfection.” She pulls the tray out to reveal a roll of bread, fanning away the wave of steam that came with it.

“This is for you two, my favorite customers,” She hands the loaf to John, now wrapped securely in a cloth, then placed in a paper bag.

John thanks her quietly for the bread, moving to pull Julie from where she was practically drooling over the pastries.

The bell over the door chimes again as they leave, Julie groaning at the sky as a few drops of rain start to fall.

“If we hurry, we should be able to make it home before the downpour,” John says, quickening his pace and shielding the bread beneath his arm. They make their way down the curving streets, the rain steadily growing heavier and heavier. John ducks into a narrow alley, a familiar shortcut to their home.

He hears heavy footsteps behind them, ones that are definitely not Julie's, but he ignores them in favor of making his way home. The person behind them is consistent, never getting closer or farther, and John can't help the small nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach. He quickens his pace ever so slightly and Julie does the same. He can see a frown pulling at the corners of her lips, and he swallows unconsciously.

The stranger seems to have sped up as well, and John itches to grab Julie's hand and run, but he knows he's just being silly. 

When a strong hand grabs his shoulder, he curses his naivety. 

The man pulls him around, and something presses against his throat. It takes him a moment to realize it's the cold touch of a blade, and Julie screams beside him.

“Jules, run,” he pleads and Julie looks torn for a second before taking off down the alley. John praises her self-preservation skills.

He forces himself to focus back on the man in front of him and not on the nausea building up in his throat. The man stares at him with piercing eyes and John curls into himself, his breath coming in short gasps. He wants to beg, to plead for his life, but the words are caught in his throat and he says nothing.

Suddenly, the man reels back, dropping his grip on John's shoulder, looking at his hand as though it was burned. John takes the opportunity to fling himself backwards, stumbling over his own feet. The man's eyes are blown wide in horror, the knife still pointed at John, though now his hand shakes.

“What the hell are you?” The man growls, his voice laced with terror as he takes a step away from John.

The curly haired boy looks at him in complete confusion, backing away slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees something shift on his arm, and his gaze slowly follows the man's. His breath inhales sharply as he looks at his arm, his brows furrowing.

His skin was shifting; different colours blooming across his arms in swirls. The bread falls from his grip as he sticks his arms out in front of him, staring at them in curious horror,

The man takes one last look him before running off, and John exhales softly. The colours start fading and his skin seems to still again. He picks up the loaf of bread, his knees almost giving out as he bends down. The rain is constant now, and his hair is clinging to his forehead as he runs down the alley towards his home.

That was the first incident of many. It took John a lot of careful deceit to hide his new abilities from his family, who were now heavily doting on him after he returned home unscathed, at least physically. He told them that he'd managed to outrun the man, but Julie looked doubtful. She never pressed, but he knew she could tell he was lying about what happened that day.

It wasn't fun to cover it up, but he knew he could never tell anyone about it. Julie confronted him one day, asking him in a quiet voice if he was okay. When he nodded, she just looked down and told him that he used to smile more. “You just always seem so scared, now.” She had said before walking away.

That was where she was wrong. He wasn't scared - paranoid, yes, but not scared. He was doing everything he could to avoid being scared. He didn't know if that was the only thing that brought on his abilites, but it was the only thing he'd seen so far. To test it out, he watched horror movies, but none of them ever gave him the same rush of bone-chilling fear as he had felt that day.

That was until one day, when his father grabbed his shoulder from behind, and John reeled back, cowering against a nearby wall. 

“John-” His father's voice was quiet as he stared at his son in concern.

John looked down at his chest, trying to settle his pounding heart, only to have his breath stutter in shock. His chest, his legs, his arms, they were all shifting, swirling with a multitude of colours until they settled on the same lilac that painted the wall behind him.

He stared at his own body in shock, lifting one hand in front of his his eyes as a wash of lilac painted over his fingers.

His father's fingers gently grabbed his hand, examining it with pure curiosity, and none of the fear that John felt. 

“It's not dangerous,” John whispered, his eyes scanning his father for any indication of fear or disgust. He found nothing.

“The deadliest knife is the one you can't see, my boy.” He said in reply, finally looking John in the eye.

“This world isn't safe for you, John. Not anymore.” John said nothing as he held back the tears burning his eyes.

“You know, I always thought it would be Julie,” He continued, turning his attention to John's skin as it shifted back to its normal beige.

“Thought what would be Julie?” John hated how small his voice sounded, but his father just smiled.

“The peculiar,” He said simply, and John was only more confused.

“Are there others like me?” He asked, silently praying for him to say yes.

“Of course, John,” His father looked at him, a sad sort of expression on his face. “And we're going to take you to them.”


	2. on your marks, get set, go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's a bit shorter, but some important stuff happens! 
> 
> thank yall for all your wonderful comments on the last chapter, i'm super excited to continue this fic, as i've got quite a few ideas for the future of it and hhhhH i'm excited sksksk
> 
> [title from queen's 'bicycle race']

John has always suffered from motion sickness. He can't stand roller-coasters or airplanes, or even just short car rides. It was really bad when he was younger, before he'd learned to deal with pain and sickness. His parents had gotten him little arm bands that he'd wear on his wrists like bracelets, a little plastic ball on the inside that would press on the pressure points of his wrist.

“Where are we going?” He asks, tugging at the elastic of the band around his wrist. The plastic ball feels as though its causing more discomfort than relieving, but he leaves it on anyways.

“Somewhere safe, John. Somewhere you can be yourself.” His father's grip on the steering wheel is tight, and his shoulders are tense. John decides to ignore the worry settling in his gut in favor of staring out the window at the passing fields. 

They're somewhere in the middle of nowhere, with no buildings for what seems like miles. Just flat fields of green and yellow. He sees the occasional small farm, with a barn that's nearly falling apart and a couple of horses milling around crooked wooden fences. It's a beautiful day, quite the contrast to constant rain and gray skies that they've had recently in Leiscestershire. But they're not in Leiscestershire anymore, at least as far as John knows. He thinks they're heading to London, but his father refuses to say anything on the subject.

His mother hasn't spoken to him since she heard the news. John's father had told her, after they had put both him and Julie to bed. He could hear his mother's sharp 'What?' from down the hall, and the next morning, she acted as though John didn't even exist. 

Julie seemed hesitant around him now, like she was afraid he was going to curse her with his weird chameleon abilities. John just wanted things to go back to normal.

They pull to a stop eventually, after a couple hours. The road they're on seems deserted, and John assumes they're only taking a break. Except, his dad puts the car in park and unbuckles, making it seem like this is their stop.

“Are you coming?” He asks when John stays rooted in his chair. He raises his eyebrows but says nothing as he throws his phone in the front pocket of his backpack before climbing out of the vehicle.

“Where are we?” John asks, gazing into the nearby forest with a wash of unease.

“Your new home, John.” John turns to face his father, lead starting to fill his stomach.

His father is pointing at a rundown building, the brick fence that was surrounding it now crumbling into the dirt. It may have been a grand building once, but years of neglect and trespassers have taken their toll. The large windows are shattered, and what's left standing of the glass is covered in dust and barely transparent anymore.

“I won't be able to go with you, my boy, but someone will be there to bring you into the loop.” His father explains, but the words mean nothing to John. He has no idea what the hell a loop is or what the hell he's doing here, and is his dad really going to abandon him at some rundown house, probably the home to some savage man who's going to murder John in his sleep-

A movement from inside the house catches his eye, and he sees his father step forward. A short blond boy crouches beneath a fallen beam in front of the door, a bright grin on his face. His eyes are an incredibly bright blue, almost as if they're glowing, and John can't bring himself to look away.

“You must be the Deacons,” He greets, walking over to them. His long eyelashes flutter as he sends John a casual wink. John's cheeks heat up with a light blush, and the blond's grin only brightens, showing off a row of perfect teeth.

“I'm Roger,” he shakes his dad's hand, “Roger Taylor.”

“Nice to meet you, Roger. This is John.” His dad snakes an arm around his shoulders and pulls him forward, and John swallows nervously.

“Hello,” He says meekly, and Roger grabs his hand and starts shaking it.

“We better get going,” Roger says, finally releasing his grip on John's hand. “Come on, grab your bag, say your goodbyes, the loop is going to close soon.”

John looks at his dad in mild horror. Is he never going to see him again?

“Goodbye, my boy,” His father says, pulling John into a tight hug. “Take care of yourself, alright?”

John nods, not trusting himself to say anything without bringing a fresh wave of tears.

“Alright, come on, Deacon, we've got places to be.” Roger locks his hand around John's and suddenly they're running around the back of the house and into the forest. John almost trips over the root of a tree, but Roger's grip on his hand keeps pulling him along.

They slow to walk eventually, and by the look on Roger's face, he has the feeling they're lost. John has no idea which direction they came from, and he isn't sure that Roger knows either, even though the blond keeps walking onward instead of tracing their steps back to the beginning.

“Hey, uh, Roger?” John finally musters up the courage to speak, breaking the somewhat uncomfortable silence that had fallen over the pair.

“Yeah, John?”

“Are we lost?” He asks, straight to the point. Roger looks at him incredulously and shakes his head.

“Nope.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, John. I am.” John drops the subject after that, though still not thoroughly convinced. They keep walking for around ten minutes, and John decides to ask the question that's been bothering him all day.

“Roger?”

“What?”

“What's a loop?” Roger stops and turns to him, his eyebrows raised.

“What's a loop?” Roger repeats, surprise evident in his voice. John nods, and Roger furrows his brow.

“It's a time loop, basically. One day just repeats itself over and over again. Ours is on September 5th, 1974.” Roger explains, and John just blinks at him.

“How?” John manages to ask, and Roger shrugs.

“Beach, our caretaker, is an ymbryne. He can create loops. It's kinda his thing. His peculiarity, if you will.”

John nods slowly. “What's yours?”

“My what?”

“Your peculiarity.” He clarifies, and Roger grins.

“Oh, you're going to love this, Deacon.” 

John looks at him, a small tinge of fear worming into his mind.

He blinks, and suddenly he's staring at his own face.

“What the hell?” He takes a step back, and his reflection laughs, except it's not his laugh. It's Roger's laugh, and John can't help but smile at the absurdness of it all.

The person in front of him morphs back into to Roger, and John finds himself staring into those familiar blue eyes-

Except, they're a bold green now.

“I'm a shapeshifter,” Roger says finally, before crouching by a tree, a small 'Aha!' escaping his lips. John just nods and whispers a quiet 'okay.' as the blond examines the knot of the tree, a small frown on his face. 

“Dammit.” He hears Roger mutter under his breath, and a spike of concern shoots through him.

“What is it?” John asks carefully, and Roger stands up slowly. 

“They're used to be another kid in our loop, but he decided to leave a couple years back. His name was Tim. Anyways, when he left, he promised to leave us little presents from the modern times in the knot of this tree, but there's nothing here this time. Of course, when Brian leaves the loop, he always gets something, but no, not me.” Roger's voice raises to a mocking pitch by the end of his rant, and John can't help the small laugh that bubbles from his lips.

Roger sends him a small glare and begins to walk in the direction they came.

It takes them about another fifteen minutes for them to make it back to the house, and John's feet are starting to hurt from the uneven terrain. Roger ducks through one of the broken screens of a door in the back of the house, motioning for John to follow, which he does after a moment's hesitation,

The inside of the house is in even worse condition than the outside. Graffiti covers the walls, most of it depictions of various satanic symbols and phrases, and John ignores the tingle of unease creeping up his spine. There's broken furniture scattered over the floor, and John narrowly avoids tripping over the broken leg of a chair. As they enter another hall, the crunch of glass from a fallen chandelier crunches under their feet, and John winces slightly at the sound.

Roger pulls them into a small storage closet, and John can't help the side of his mind that tells him that he's about to murdered by a blond teenager with the longest eyelashes he's ever seen. 

But Roger just sends him a reassuring smile and checks a small pocket watch that he'd pulled from his jeans.

A sudden thud from beyond the door of the broom closet makes John jump, right into Roger, who just pushes him back on his feet and opens the door.

The light comes seeping in, and John squints against the intrusion to the blackness of the closet. Roger looks at him expectantly, urging him out the door. 

John steps out and looks around in amazement. The walls are free of any graffiti, and a soft, clean carpet covers the floor. The wallpaper seems almost brand new, and a bright chandelier hangs overhead. A girl, around his age, runs down the hall in front of him, and John steps back, knocking into Roger for the second time in the past five minutes.

Roger walks up beside him and grins a blinding smile.

“Welcome to your new home, Deacy!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> roger!!!! and a mysterious girl???? 
> 
> hope y'all enjoyed this chapter! comments and kudos are very much appreciated!


	3. it's strange but it's true

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long ahhh, i kinda had to get back into the groove of writing longer chapters, so hopefully things will pick up from here!!
> 
> warnings: short descriptions of blood, a bit of body horror??
> 
> [title from queen's 'a kind of magic']

Julie loved to play pranks on him when they were kids, and he wasn't one to shy from returning the favor. There was one time, many moons ago, when he'd decided to plan a harmless prank on his sister in retaliation for the many she'd pulled on him. The planning was done, word for word, and the trap had been set. He could only wait in excited anticipation for Julie to come into the room, the bucket above the door shifting slightly as John hid himself away. She'd come in after only a few minutes, humming some mindless tune. Completely unassuming. 

As he replays the memory of the prank in his head, the cold reality of his situation washes over him like the water that had drenched his sister all those years ago. Except, this wasn't a prank, God knows he wished it was, but there were too many variables; first, with John's colour changing skin, which was physically impossible on its own, plus the fact that John and Roger had seemingly traveled back in time by going into that broom closet. 

The halls have renewed themselves, lush red carpeting cushioning their sore feet. It's quite the change from the cracked wooden boards that had line the floor earlier, with no nails threatening to give them tetanus. The ceiling rises high above their heads, and John's eyes follow the elegant cream carvings as they snake up the wall, a somewhat horrified expression on his face.

“You know, this never gets old,” Roger muses next to him, and John turns to stare at him in confusion, his anxiousness only growing as he sees Roger staring at him with an amused expression.

“Welcome to the Garden Lodge, my dear Deacon. We've got anything a peculiar kid like you would ever need- although, I should ask, what is your peculiarity? We don't want another Mary incident.” Roger looks at him expectantly, but John can't bring himself to form any words. He has no idea where the hell he is, who the hell Mary is, and what on hell is going on? 

Roger seems to notice is frazzled state, and his expression softens. “C'mon, mate, let's get you some water and I'll answer as many questions as I can.”

Roger leads him down the hall to a large kitchen, where a small boy sat at the counter, his nose buried in a worn down book- it's a recipe book, John realizes. He's wearing an apron loosely tied around his neck, and it take John a moment to realize the pages in his book are flipping themselves, and that the boy isn't even holding the book, his hands busy scribbling on a notepad.

“Ah, okay, so, John,” Roger pulls him further into the kitchen, “This is Joe. Joe Fanelli. He's kinda our personal chef.”

“His book is floating,” John states quietly, and the boy- Joe looks up, a smirk on his face.

“You must be John,” He greets pleasantly, the book drifting calmly back to the table as he gets up from his stool. “I'm Joe, as Roger already said.”

“Right, yes, my name's John,” Roger huffs a laugh beside him, and John realizes they've just been going in circles with their introductions. So much for good first impressions, he thinks, scoffing at himself mentally.

“I'm telekinetic, if you were wondering,” Joe says, acting like that one statement explains everything, but John's even more confused than before.

“He can move things with his mind,” Roger explains simply, and Joe rolls his eyes, turning back to the counter.

“Oh.” Is all John manages say, before Roger glides over to one of many oak cupboards that surround them, grabbing a glass. He fills it up in the sink before shoving it into John's hands, a few droplets spilling over the rim.

John takes a hesitant sip, and one small part of his brain tells him that it's drugged and this is all some weird acid trip, but he ignores those thoughts and follows Roger as he leads them back down the hall.

Roger decides it best that he meet the rest of the house, and John doesn't really have to process what that implies before Roger is ringing a bell by the doorway, and he hears footsteps in all directions.

The introductions take around ten minutes, and by the end of it, John feels completely and utterly drained.

The first person he saw was Joe, his apron now gone, leaving him with messy light brown hair and simple button up that was half tucked into his jeans. He collapses onto one of the many couches around what John assumes is the living room, kicking his legs up onto the armrest.

The blonde girl that had run past him and Roger when they first arrived shows up next, her bangs falling over blue eyes.

“I'm Mary,” She says, and then she curtsies, and for some reason that is one of the stranger things John has seen today.

“Mary can walk through walls,” Roger explains, and gestures for the girl to demonstrate. She gives John a smile before disappearing into the nearby wall, and John's stomach jolts at how unnatural everything going on around him is.

Next is a taller boy, probably a few years his senior, with warm brown eyes and dark fluffy hair that fell in curls over his forehead. He's wearing overalls, the knees of which are stained with grass and dirt, and John assumes he's some sort of gardener.

“I'm Jim. Jim Hutton,” The boy says simply, and Roger explains that the taller boy can grow plants in an instant. Roger asks that Jim demonstrates, but the gardener shakes his head and excuses himself from the room, saying that he is quite tired.

Roger frowns at him, but says nothing as another boy approaches them, his eyes narrowed as he scans John in a way that makes him want to hide from the prying eyes.

“This is Paul,” Roger practically spits, and John can feel the tension rolling off the two of them in waves. It's disconcerting. Paul walks away after that, and John only then notices the heavy gloves on his hands, covering all the skin up to his sleeves, which then cover the rest of his arms. John frowns, wondering what on earth those were for. Was he a gardener? Like Jim? Though, from what John had seen from the two of them, he didn't think they'd get along very well. Jim seemed much softer, and with Paul, well, John could feel those piercing eyes feeling him with an unusual amount of anxiety.

“Paul has to wear gloves for a reason, all right, mate?” Roger whispers to him, his breath against John's ear sending a shiver down his spine. Roger notices and leans back slightly, though his voice is still hushed. “Just don't let him touch you, skin on skin.”

Ominous, John thinks, ignoring the creeping of gooseflesh over his skin.

This is all kinds of weird, he muses. If someone had told him two weeks ago that he'd find himself trapped in house with a boy who could move things with his mind, and a girl who could walk through walls, he would've thought they were crazy. And, yet, here he was.

“Peter is around here somewhere, and I think Brian's out with Beach right now. Oh, and Freddie's upstairs.” Roger says suddenly, and John looks up at him.

“Beach? That's someone's name?” He doesn't mean for it to come across as harsh as it probably sounded, but Roger just laughs.

“Last name. And he's the guy in charge of this whole place,” Roger explains, a smirk still in place on his face.

“Alright,” John says slowly, faintly recalling Roger saying something about this Beach figure when they were in the woods.

“And who's Brian?” John asks, taking another sip of his now lukewarm water.

Roger gives a dramatic sigh. “A pain in the ass is what he is. You gotta love him, though.”

Roger smiles a bit after that, kicking his legs up onto the coffee table.

“What was the other name you said? Fred?” 

Roger's grin drops instantly at that, and John almost recoils at the look on the blond's face.

“C'mon,” he says, pulling John up from his seat on the couch.

John says nothing as they walk down the hall, towards the farthest room. When they get there, Roger presses his ear against the door, listening carefully. For what, John isn't sure.

Seemingly satisfied with what he heard, Roger slowly opens the door, and the two of them peer in.

There's a boy hunched over the black and white keys of a piano, his spine arched in a way that seems almost unnatural. His hair is long and luscious, and it's dark black is a sharp contrast to the white button-up he's wearing. He's skinny, almost sickeningly so, and the shirt drapes awkwardly on his thin shoulders. He's not playing anything, but John can see his hands moving as he scribbles in a small notebook.

"That's Freddie," Roger whispers in his ear, careful that the man in question doesn't hear them talking. John just can't seem to tear his gaze from the mysterious teen as he sets down his notebook on the top of the piano, poising his bony fingers over the keys.

He starts to play, his hands flying over the keys, and it's a gorgeous melody. John turns to Roger with wide eyes, the blond returning the look with a shrug.

"He's got a gift for music, at least that's what Beach says. too bad he's - you know." Roger trails off, gesturing loosely in the direction of his mouth.

"Uh, I don't know, actually," John says, his brows furrowing in confusion. 

"Oh, right." Roger looks a bit sheepish. "Well, you'll find out sooner or later, I suppose."

With that, Roger leads him from the room, Freddie's melody fading as they walk away.

They make their way to the room next door, and John can still hear the lovely music through the walls. It's soothing, and John can't help the gratefulness he feels for it after the absolutely hectic day he's had. Roger introduces the room as John's room, and encourages him to settle in before bolting out the door, leaving John standing alone and looking lost.

He decides to start unpacking, slipping the few items of clothing into the closet, where a brand new set of hangers hang. He didn't bring much, not really expecting to never return home the road-trip with his dad. The last thing he places is a picture of him, Julie, and Veronica. It was Veronica's first day at work, and they'd all gone to visit her, hoping to embarrass her in front of her new coworkers. It was also the day John realized he was a bit in love with her.

How could anyone not love that soft face, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the ovens, constantly smelling of vanilla and freshly baked bread. She was amazing.

And John would never see her again.

The reality of his situation hit him like a punch to the gut, his knees buckling under him.

He is never going to see his family again. 

The nausea in his stomach builds as his heart rate speeds up.

He barely makes it to the trashcan in the corner of the room before he empties the contents of his stomach, small sobs forcing their way out as he heaves.

He can't fathom a world away from one he grew up in. Away from his mother, his father, Julie, everyone.

All because of some stupid genetic peculiarity.

He kicks at the carpet, the despair freezing into wanton anger, and he curses whatever cruel fate decided this for him. He's just plain ol' John Deacon, he's nothing special.

Plus, the stupid ability doesn't work unless he's in some life threatening situation, which happens almost never. He doesn't even get to control the thing that ruined his life.

Breathe, he tells himself, closing his eyes.

Fuck breathing.

He fist hits the wall before he realizes what he's doing, and the pain splits across his knuckles.

“Shit,” He mutters, stumbling backwards. The amount of sheer fear and excruciating despair clawing in his gut starts to spin again, and the sight of blood running down his fingers , falling in fat droplets to the wood flooring under him.

A soft knock at the door sends his head shooting up, almost giving him whiplash as a cold feeling wraps itself around his heart.

Someone must of heard him punch the wall.

He quickly wipes his hand on the sheet, messing it up so the stain isn't visible. He carefully takes a deep breath, and schools his face into a neutral expression.

When he opens the door, the sight that greets him is-

Unexpected.

It's Freddie, with his long black hair and thin shoulders. He has a scarf wrapped around his neck, and it covers the lower half of his face, leaving John to focus on his dark brown eyes.

“Oh,” John says eloquently, and they stare at each other for a moment, before Freddie lets himself in. Only then does John notice the paper bag in his hands. Freddie dumps the contents onto his bedside table, and John's eyebrows raise. The silence in the air is thick, and John can feel it pressing in on him, but he still says nothing as Freddie picks up a small piece of cloth. He dumps some sort of liquid on it, before gesturing John over.

He approaches hesitantly, mentally going over everything Roger and said to him earlier, and he remembers nothing about not touching Freddie, that was only for- Paul, was it?

Freddie gently grabs his hand, and John just manages to not pull away. He soon realizes that the substance on the cloth was some sort of antiseptic, as Freddie runs it over his split knuckles, an intense focus in his eyes.

They say nothing as Freddie then grabs some gauze from the table, and John wonders how many times this has happened, for Freddie to have these kinds of supplies on hand. The black-haired boy's touch is gentle but firm as he wraps John's hand with the white bandages.

Freddie's packing up, the interaction over as soon as it started, and the boy is half way out the door before John blurts, “Why are you wearing a scarf?”

He regrets it immediately, wanting to drop dead then and there as Freddie slowly turns back around.

The boy looks at him with narrowed eyes, and John shrinks back a bit. Freddie looks down, his shoulders dropping in defeat.

He raises his hands to his face, gripping the edges of his scarf. He raises his brows, as if asking John if he's ready. John nods for him to continue, anxiety starting to crawl in his gut.

Freddie lowers the scarf, and John can't help the flinch that sends him reeling back a step.

Freddie's lips.

Freddie's lips are sewn shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all enjoyed!! also i promise brian will show up soon skksk 
> 
> comments and kudos are very much appreciated, as well as any tips or suggestions, and requests!!


	4. lend me your ears and i'll sing you a song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for a bit of body horror, and some swearing
> 
> hope y'all enjoy!
> 
> [title from the beatles' 'with a little help from my friends']

The silence is suffocating.

John has never really considered himself to be squeamish, but as he stares at the man in front of him, his stomach lurches.

Freddie's lips are laced together with thick black thread, pulling them taut against each other, rendering the black-haired man mute. The skin around the incisions is red and inflamed, and John can only imagine how much pain Freddie must be in, even though he shows none of it in his expression. Angry white scars surround where the thread weaves through his skin, and John wonders just how long Freddie as been like this. He isn't sure he wants to know the answer.

Freddie's eyes are dark as John's brain tries to understand what he's seeing in front of him. Freddie doesn't seem the least bit surprised by John's reaction, and the latter realizes how many times this must happen to him. He quickly casts his eyes away, heading the voice of his mother chiding him in his head, telling him that it's improper to stare at strangers.

Freddie moves suddenly, jolting John from his stupor. The other boy reaches into his pocket, pulling out a ratty old notebook and a small wooden pencil, flipping through the used pages until he comes across a blank one. He scribbles quickly, before handing it over to John.

'Can I leave now?' It reads, and John nods, handing the note back to Freddie with haste.

John still doesn't make eye contact as he leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

He slowly walks over to the bed, sinking down into the soft quilt that covered it. His mind was racing at a mile per minute, his heart pounding in his chest.

Why the hell were Freddie's lips sewn shut?

The image itself was straight out of horror movie, with its grotesque implications. John's stomach flips as he thinks of the other peculiar children here. He wonders what horrors have been done to them, and he wonders why on earth his father thought he'd be safe here when this is what they do to people like him.

He just wants to go home.

The knock at the door startles him again, and he takes a deep breath in an attempt to compose himself.

This time, it's Roger standing there when he finally answers, and his eyes are a bright pink, matching almost perfectly to the sparkly pink converse he's wearing. It's an almost comical sight, and John's sure he would've smiled if didn't feel so terrible at the moment.

“Is there a shower here?” He asks before Roger can say anything, the blond raising his brows in surprise.

“Course there is, mate. Come on, I'll show you.” Roger looks a bit concerned, but he doesn't press, which John is eternally grateful for.

He doesn't really feel like leaving his room at this point, or ever, really, but he does want a shower, so he follows Roger silently down the hall, praying they don't see anyone on their way.

Roger shows him to the washrooms, and John adds their location to the mental map he's been keeping of the Garden Lodge, though he's sure he had yet to explore a large portion of it, judging by how big the exterior was last he saw it.

Roger also shows him to a linen closet, where a bunch of freshly washed towels lay resting, in all sizes and colours. John grabs a plain white one, and thanks Roger for his help, a subtle message to get the blond to leave him alone. Roger seems to understand, and he gives John a smile before walking off down the hall, his converse sparkling in the light of the chandelier overhead.

John turns on the shower, making sure the door is locked, before he starts to undress. He feels sick, and he knows its not because of some virus or flu. The picture of Freddie's lips keeps flashing in front of his eyes, and he swallows past the nausea. He doesn't know why the image bothers him so much, as he's sure there must be a reason for Freddie's forced muteness, just like Paul must wear his gloves, and yet making someone wear gloves pales in comparison to sewing their lips shut.

He steps into the shower, and doesn't bother to turn down the heat as the water burns his skin. It grounds him in a way, as his mind races in the clouds, trying to sort through the heaps of information that's been given to him over the past week or so. First, with his father finding out about his peculiarity, then his mother practically disowning him, and Julie acting as though she doesn't even know him. He doesn't know if he's crying, or if it's just the shower's water running over his cheeks.

After his family discovered the truth about their son, his father sat him down and explained to him that their were people in the world, people who were different. John couldn't help but scoff at the thought of real life superheroes, but he knows his dad must be telling the truth, because he's seen his own body shift, the colour of his skin changing to blend into whatever background is behind him. A real life chameleon.

He had asked his dad how he knew all of this, about peculiars, and his dad just laughed.

“Because I am one, too, John,” He'd said, and John had reeled back. His father? No, his father wasn't different, he was just some fifty-year-old man with a regular nine to five job, who came home to a wife and kids and who lived a completely normal life.

Except he didn't. 

His father had explained to John that he could always feel a peculiar's presence, and he knew what their peculiarity was, but he couldn't pinpoint who exactly it was. That's why he'd been surprised when he saw John, not because he was abnormal, but because his father had thought it was Julie.

John didn't know if he should've taken offense to that or not. 

His father also explained that when he was younger, he helped track down peculiar's, sending them to different homes to keep them safe, and that that was what he was going to do with John.

The ride to the Garden Lodge was full of nerves. John had initially thought that his father was taking him to some twisted conversion camp, where they'd somehow extract his peculiarity so that he could live a normal life, but he hoped his father had more mercy than that.

Julie had cried when they left, but his mother watched with dry eyes, and when John closed that door, he knew he was building a barrier between the relationship he had with his mother. He knew even then that his life was going to change, for better or for worse he couldn't be sure, but he knew it would never be the same, no matter how much he wished it would.

He suddenly realizes how long he's just been standing there, staring at the wall and letting the steaming water wash over him. He quickly moves to wash his short brown curls, careful not to let any soap drip into his eyes.

His thoughts slowly drift back to Freddie, and as he thinks of how thin the boy was, he starts wonder how he eats, if he even does. He must, right?”

Roger knocks at the door, and he snaps to attention.

“You alright in there, mate? It's been awhile.” Roger's voice is just loud enough for John to hear him over the sound of the shower, and John quickly shuts off the water, grabbing his towel from a nearby rack. 

“I'm fine, sorry,” He answers after a moment, almost forgetting that Roger had asked him something.

He towels of his hair, not bothering to be careful about it, just wanting to get it dry and not dripping water down his back. Only then does he realize that he didn't bring any clean clothes with him, so he just pulls his jeans and hoodie back on, ignoring the thick layer of guilt that still covers his skin.

He glances at the mirror, and finds it's all fogged up from the humidity, so he wipes at it with his sleeve, taking in his appearance with tired eyes. He looks well enough, though his hair is staring to curls at weird angles, and he sighs.

He knows Roger is probably waiting for him, so he sucks it up and unlocks the door, the carpet rough under his bare feet. Roger his leaning against the wall when John leaves the washroom, though he perks up almost immediately.

“I don't know if you heard the bell while you were in there, but it's suppertime, mate.” Roger's voice is surprisingly gentle, and before John can say anything, the blond places an equally soft hand on his shoulder.

“You saw Freddie, I'm guessing,” He says, his eyes sympathetic. John just nods, and Roger bites his lip, thinking.

“They did what needed to be done, John.” Roger says as an explanation, and something about it rubs John the wrong way.

“Who's they?”

“That's a long story, mate. I'll have to tell you it another time, or Beach is going to be on my neck for making you late to your first group meal.”

With that, Roger takes off walking down the hall, and John has no choice but to follow him.

When they arrive at the dining room, John sees a mix of familiar faces, though he can't quite match a name to each one. There's an older man sitting at the head of the table, and John assumes this must be Beach, since he's the only adult he's seen so far. Roger sits down next to a curly-haired boy, and the blond pats the chair next to him. John takes that as a hint to sit down.

“This is Brian. Brian, this is John.” Roger introduces, and Brian smiles warmly, offering his hand for John to shake. It's very prim and proper, much like the clothing Brian is wearing, and John can't help but raise a brow.

A sudden hush falls over the table, and John looks up to see Freddie walk in, with the telekinetic boy- Joe- at his side. He's holding a glass of water in one hand and what looks like a smoothie in the other. The pair sit themselves opposite from John, Roger, and Brian, and he can almost feel Roger sneer at the mute boy.

Freddie pulls a pill container from his pocket, opening it carefully. It's a weekly organizer, and he opens the one for Sunday before dumping it's contents into his water glass. Joe floats a spoon over to Freddie, who responds with an appreciative raise of the brows. John's frown deepens as he realizes Freddie can't even smile with the stitches in.

Joe also floats over two very thin straws, and Freddie sticks one of them into his smoothie as he stirs the glass of water, dissolving the pills slowly. He slips the smoothie straw between his stitches, and John realizes that this is how he must eat, just blended up foods and water infused with vitamins.

Joe leaves the room after checking that Freddie was alright, before returning with a stack of plates and a bunch of cutlery floating on either side of him. He sends the plates around the table, before doing the same with the knives and forks, and it seems almost like a scene from Beauty and the Beast. He half expects them all to break into song. That wouldn't be the weirdest thing to happen here.

The dinner passes fairly quickly, after John realizes how hungry he actually was. The food was delicious, and he mentally notes to thank Joe for it afterwards.

John finds himself in the living room, with Roger and Brian bickering over some random topic. He already finds himself growing annoyed with their chatter, so he let's his thoughts wander. They slowly drift to Freddie, and the sight of the black thread stitching through his lips, and he can't hold back the question anymore.

“Why don't you undo Freddie's stitches?” He asks suddenly, and both Brian and Roger's heads snap to him. Brian looks at him with something akin to pity, while a fire lights in Roger's eyes

“Because they deserve to be shut,” Roger answers simply, and John's brow furrows.

“It's inhumane, you guys must realize that, right?” He stands up, and Roger does the same. Brian looks at the two of them with a worried expression.

“Look, Deacon,” Roger spits, and the use of John's last name sounds horribly degrading, “You need to understand something here. Freddie is dangerous.”

“How do you know? You sewed his fucking lips shut before he could defend himself!” John's blood is boiling now, and he barely understands what he's saying. “He's a human being, Roger, not some animal you can just put a muzzle on and lock away.”

Roger steps towards him, and John falters slightly. He's never been the fighting type, but something about the topic at hand spurs him on. Brian steps between them, hands out.

“Calm down, guys, okay?” He says, his voice soothing. John backs down, but Roger places his hands on Brian's chest and pushes him back, his searing gaze fixed on John

John almost watches in slow motion as Brian stumbles backwards, tripping over the ratty carpet. His body hits the ground with a thud, but his head hits the edge of the coffee table with a sickening crack.

Freddie rushes forward at the that, and John realizes that he must have been listening to the entire argument from behind the wall. He crouches next Brian's still form, and John's breath catches as Freddie taps Brian on the cheek, trying to get him to wake up, but he receives no response. 

Freddie makes a noise, and it so closely resembles a whimper, as he tries to form words past his impairment, and John finally feels his resolve harden. He pulls his pocket knife from the back pocket of his jeans, quickly flipping open the scissors.

Freddie recoils back as he watches John with wide eyes, his grip on Brian tightening, pulling the unconscious boy closer to his chest. John approaches him carefully, one hand out to show that he wasn't a danger. It was very much like approaching a frightened animal, and John frowned at the comparison. Freddie was a human being, no matter what the others said.

And he deserved the ability to speak.

He gently takes Freddie's chin in his hand, careful of Brian under them. He tilts Freddie's face up to look at him, and his heart breaks at the pure terror in his wide brown eyes. John thumbs at his stitches, looking for the best point to start cutting.

Freddie is completely still as the first stitch breaks, and John can feel his breath coming in short gasps.

It only takes a few seconds for John to cut through the rest of the stitches, and when he does, Freddie lifts a shaking hand to his mouth, his fingers pressing against his newly freed lips. The sight is unnerving, as Freddie still has thick black thread hanging in front of his mouth.

“Get Miami.” The voice is barely a whisper, and it cracks so harshly that John almost winces at its crackling tone. It takes him a moment to realize that it was Freddie who spoke, his voice rough with years of never being used, except for the occasional humming. John thinks its a miracle that Freddie remembers how to speak at all, with how long he's been without practice.

He finally registers what Freddie had said, and he finds himself blinking in confusion. 

“Miami?” He questions, and Freddie licks at his dry lips.

“Roger, get Beach.” He clarifies, and Roger immediately runs from the room, his pink shoes disappearing down the hall.

John turns his attention back to Freddie, who is pulling at one of the threads that dangles in front of his lips. He pulls at it hesitantly, and John winces at the grotesque way it drags his skin. Freddie puts a bit more force into the next tug, and the string begins to move through his lip. John looks away at that.

“That's quite a bit of blood.” Is the next thing Freddie says, and John instantly feels his stomach turn to lead. He sees Freddie's hands put down a clump of string, the string that was just moments earlier sewn into his skin. He also sees a few drops of red running down his finger tips, and he closes his eyes.

He only opens them again when he hears Beach's panicked voice fill the room.

“What happened?” He asks, instantly going to crouch by Brian's head.

“He tripped over the carpet, knocked himself on the head pretty well,” Freddie answers, and his voice is slowly starting to grow above a whisper. He has an interesting accent, quite unlike the rest of them, and that is definitely not what John should be focusing on right now, but he's finding it quite hard to really pay attention to one specific thing at the moment.

Beach looks up at Freddie, and nods before doing a double take. He doesn't say anything, just stares in shock as Freddie stares right back, the latter's gaze unyielding. Beach nods again, this time much slower, and he turns his attention back to the unconscious Brian

“Roger, could you please run and get a cool cloth? And John, pass me that cushion over there.” Beach nods towards the couch, and John moves quickly, passing the pillow over with shaking hands. Roger remains rooted to his spot.

“Roger, dear,” Freddie says comfortingly, and John wonders how on earth he treats them kindly after what they did to him, “Please go fetch a cold cloth from the kitchen.”

Roger snaps to attention at that, running from the room.

John sees Paul watching them the hallway, a curious tilt to his head, and John feels a growing sense of dread build in his stomach.

A small whimper draws John's attention back to the scene in front of him, and he sees Brian begin to stir. Roger runs back, handing a sopping cloth to Freddie, who lays carefully over his forehead, smoothing out the wrinkling in the fabric.

Roger steps forward, before full on shoving Freddie back, taking his position at Brian's side. Freddie looks surprised, but says nothing as he wipes a drop of blood from the corner of his mouth.

Brian's eyes blink open slowly, and he groans at the light overhead. Freddie pulls himself from the floor and moves to shut the curtains, and Brian hums in appreciation.

A sudden look of confusion crosses his expression, and Beach lays a reassuring hand on the curly-haired boy's shoulder. One of Roger's hands rest on Brian's shoulder, while the other supports his back as he sits up.

“Where am I?” Brian asks, a look of fear mixing with the confusion on his features. Roger reels back a bit as Brian pushes the blond's hand off his shoulder.

“What?” Roger says quietly, his brows raised.

“Who the hell are you?” Brian spits, anger darkening his eyes as he scrambles to his feet.

“Shit.” Freddie says quietly, and that sums up the situation quite well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man i love cliffhangers
> 
> kudos and comments are greatly appreciated
> 
> hmu on tumblr @ eveningmercury if you want to scream at me about this fic, plus i may or may not post some extra content ;)


	5. yesterday, i was so blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [title from al bowlly's 'my hat's on the side of my head']

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this instead of studying oh well guess i'm going to fail my exams
> 
> tw for minor non con (kissing)

Brian feels like he's floating.

It's a wonderful, freeing feeling. He could get used to this.

Bright violins play in his ears, their gentle music making him sway, a smile blooming on his face. 

The world around him is grainy, and in only black and white, and he feels like he's in a motion picture, watching the scenes play out from an outside perspective. He doesn't quite feel like himself.

The director places the other actors on their marks, and Brian watches himself take center stage, the camera focused in on his face. A makeup artist brushes powder of his face with a puffy poof- he smiles at the alliteration. Another crew member, in charge of hair, quickly brushes a gel through his hair with a thin comb, smoothing his curls into gentle, sophisticated waves. The costume designer shines his pristine black shoes, making them sparkle under the afternoon sun. 

“Action!” The directors voice is loud, and it echoes in Brian's head. 

He should be doing something, reciting lines, or acting out a scene, but he never got a script. He just stares at his freshly shined shoes, watching in horror as they melt into the ground under him, the afternoon sun having gone from pleasant warmth to unbearable heat in the matter of a few seconds.

The people around him start to melt like plastic army men under a magnifying glass, their faces blending together into a mesh of swirls, and Brian finds the mixing very well representing of the fear churning in his stomach. Their fingers fall in thick droplets to the unforgiving ground below them, the drops splashing in the melted grass.

He tries to scream, but he chokes on the heavy air. He coughs and heaves, trying to get any bit of oxygen in his lungs, but it just burns.

Brian doesn't realize he's sinking into the earth until it reaches his ankles, and by then he's too far gone. He tries to struggle, falling onto his hands knees to crawl out, but the ground just pulls his hands under, and a scream builds in his throat. He pulls back as hard as he can, his arms straining as panic fills his chest. He can't breathe, and his head is killing him, the pounding behind his eyes worsening as he struggles.

The cheery violins haven't stopped their playing, though the music has slowed, like a record player that doesn't spin quite right, giving the music a haunting undertone, though not enough to be recognizably slowed down. It's horrifying, as his black and white world fades to only black as his face meets the melted dirt.

He's drowning.

It's only when he tries to breathe in the molten earth that he wakes up, his vision suddenly springing to life in full colour. It's beautiful, and he almost wants to cry at the sight, when he realizes he has no idea where he is.

The first thing he sees is a boy with bright pink eyes, and that's not right, is it? He thought he had made it out of that hellish dream, but he's only been thrown into a new one.

“Where am I?” He asks slowly, the fear and anxiety that he thought he'd left behind blooming in his chest with renewed vigor. The pink-eyed boy's brow furrows, and beyond the cotton in his ears, Brian hears him speak.

“What?” He says, and Brian tries to crawl back from him, shoving off the hand on his shoulder. This doesn't feel like a dream, and the fogginess in his mind could be easily explained by some sort of drug filled kidnapping.

He was just at home, wasn't he? Did they take him from his bed, stealing him when he as in his most vulnerable state? Why?

“Shit.” He hears another voice speak up, and he can't help it as his eyes flicker over. 

He almost screams at the sight of the boy, blood dripping down his lips, staining them a horrifying crimson red. His dark eyes are narrowed as they stare down at him, though Brian can see another emotion mixed in- concern? 

_”That man is a murderer-”_

His own voice screams in his head, and Brian's breathing stills.

_”Welcome to Trident, Freddie,” Brian greets pleasantly, “May I take your bags?”_

_“Thank you, darling,” The new boy's hair falls in soft curls just over his shoulders, its dark black shimmering in the afternoon sun as he takes in the grandiose exterior of the house._ Just wait until you see the inside, _Brian muses, as he takes the shorter boy's worn leather suitcase from him, his eyes scanning the many stickers that cover it._

_“Do you travel a lot?” He asks, holding up the suitcase in reference._

_Freddie chuckles lightly. “No, not really. My friends always brought me back stickers from their travels, however. Adds a little character to the old thing, don't you think?” Freddie gestures to suitcase, a sort of brightness in his eyes._

_Brian just nods, and leads him into the front hall._

Brian blinks, and he finds himself staring into that boy's eyes- Freddie, was it?

The brightness is gone, now, replaced by a horrifying emptiness, and Brian swallows nervously.

“Brian?” A soothing voice calls to his left, and he turns to stare into the comforting eyes of an older man, gray hairs peppering among the chestnut.

_”Brian, are you alright, son?” His father looks at him concern, and Brian can't seem to find any words to speak. Instead, he just stares at shoes, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his dress pants. They itch him uncomfortably, and the scratchy vest he's wearing over his button-up isn't helping. He tries to inconspicuously tug at the fabric without his father noticing, but his attempts prove futile as the elder man laughs and claps him on the shoulder._

_“We better hurry up, my boy. Don't want to be late, now do we?” Brian just forces a smile as he bends down to adjust one of his shoes, fixing the tongue so it rests neatly over the top of his foot and not to the side. Anything to delay the inevitable._

_A few days prior, Brian found himself almost giddy with joy in anticipation for this evening; a night out with his parents to see a motion picture, an opportunity many people did not have the chance to receive._

_He should be grateful- and he is! He truly is, except with everything that's happened-_

“-Brian!” The blond snaps his fingers in front of Brian's eyes. 

“Yes?” He answers quietly, his mind reeling as snippets of memories start to surface. It isn't all there yet, and he's starting to feel a strange fog settling over his vision. Roger- Roger? - speaks again, but his voice sounds so far off.

“-Are you with us?”

_”You're leaving?” Roger asks incredulously, his arms crossing over his chest._

_“There's an entire world out there, Rog. I can't be trapped here forever. It's suffocating.” Tim looks over at Roger fondly, though Brian can see the sadness in his eyes._

_“I swear I'll keep in contact, alright? Through the knot.”_

_Roger looks up and sighs, before muttering a quiet, “Alright. Promise?”_

_Tim laughs, and sticks out his pinky finger. “Promise.”_

_Roger links their fingers together, and Tim smiles before stepping out the door._

He wakes up in a strange bed, cotton sheets tangled around his gangly limbs. His head feels like it's splitting open, a small whimper scraping past his lips as he shifts, worsening the pain that shoots through his temple. 

“Drink this,” A kind voice says, and Brian knows he recognizes it, but he can't quite remember their name. A cold glass presses to his lips, and Brian almost sighs as the cool water runs down his throat, a blessed relief.

“How are you feeling?” Brian finally manages to pry open his heavy eyelids, blinking up at the same man from earlier, with the salt and pepper hair and warm eyes.

“My head's killing me,” He slurs, frowning at his own words. The man nods, his expression grim with concern, and he turns to the bedside table. Brian can't bring himself to follow the man's hands with his eyes, so he waits, staring at the wallpaper instead.

It's dark, with a bunch of tiny dots, some of them connected- constellations, his brain helpfully supplies, and Brian finds himself entranced as he looks upon the patterns. It's elegant, in it's simplicity, and he wonders who decided the choice of wallpaper. He admires their taste.

“Do you think you can sit up?” The man asks, and Brian pushes his palms against the bed as a test.

Once he finally makes his way up, he is offered a couple of pills and the glass of water from earlier.

“These should help with the headache. Peter said it the effects would wear off soon enough, once you get most of your memory back.”

At that, Brian realizes why he can't remember the man's name- why he can't remember much of anything. It's a strange, horrible feeling, one Brian would never wish upon anyone else. His mind feels empty, all his life story just one the tip of his tongue, waiting to spill out. Brian dreads the moment it'll come rushing back (if it ever does).

“Who's Peter?” He asks finally, hoping to spur something, turn some gears in his head.

“Peter Freestone, he's the one helping you with your memory. I would explain what he's doing exactly, but I'm afraid I don't quite understand it myself,” The man chuckles mirthlessly. “From what I gathered, he's making sure you don't get it all back in one momentous burst, but in small sections.”

Brian nods slowly, his mind reeling.

“How?” 

The man looks confused for a moment, before a smile curls his lips, wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes.

“Through his peculiarity,”

A sudden haze falls over Brian's mind, and he finds himself sinking back into the blankets that surround him.

_”Hello,” He whispers, crouching down till he's eye level with the doe._

_Even at the ripe age of eight, he was already lanky and tall, much to the amusement of his peers._

_The doe whispers back, her voice smooth as honey and brimming with nature._

_He's at home here, more so then anywhere else, with the birds and the crickets and the deer. The forest floor dampens his trousers with morning dew as he kneels down, but he can't bring himself to care. The sun is beginning to peek over the horizon, casting golden ways through the leaves as they dance in the springtime breeze._

_The doe lays her head in his hand as he uses his free one to stroke over her spotted fur, the white and brown patches creating an intricate puzzle over her spine. He runs a gentle hand over her ears, relaxing into the moss under him._

_A little blue songbird lands on his shoulder, and he reaches into his pocket for his small canvas bag full of bird seed, sprinkling it onto the ground for his new friend._

_“Hello, I'm Brian,” He lilts his voice, adding a melodic hint, making it easier for the bird to understand._

_The bird chirps happily as he crunches on a seed, fluttering his delicate wings._

_He never wants to leave._

He wakes up slowly this time, like weeding through molasses as he tries to wake up. There's a golden stream of sunlight wafting through the white curtains, and Brian feels a wash of serenity fall over him.

His head feels clear and light, and he thanks the older man from earlier for that blessed medicine.

The pads of his feet hit the ground softly as he pulls himself from the bed, the cold wooden floors sending a shiver through his body.

The house is eerily silent as he navigates its seemingly never ending halls, the walls creaking as they settle. It seems like an older building, with it's curving architecture, though that has never been Brian's area of expertise.

Suddenly, he knocks into another person, distracted by the crowning on the high ceilings. The other boy stumbles to the ground, dark hair falling over his face.

“I am so very sorry,” Brian says quickly, and the boy dismisses the apology with a wave, pushing himself off the ground. Brian extends a hand to help, and the boy hesitates. Brian slowly pulls his hand back, and watches in confusion as the teen stands up.

He brushes his dark hair from out his face, and Brian's chest tightens as his gaze falls on the boy's lips.

The fog is back before he has time to blink.

_”No!” Freddie flinches back, and Brian looks away._

_The screaming and thrashing dies down after a few seconds, and he shudders._

_Freddie's limp hand falls into his field of vision, carefully manicured nails painted a pure black. Brian's eyes flicker up to see Foster pull Freddie's unconscious body onto the bed, and he wants nothing more than to run from the room._

_Foster sets down the chloroform soaked cloth on the metal tray that balances on the wooden bedside table. His eyes rake over the various tools; a few sewing needles, a spool of thread, and a roll of gauze. His picks up the needle, and Brian swallows._

_Roger shifts next to him, his converse squeaking lightly on the tile that covered the floor of their makeshift hospital room. The light flickers above them, and Foster's hands pause where they were threading the needle._

When he blinks awake again, his hands still shaking, a light sheen of sweat beading over his forehead, Brian finds himself strewn across a couch in the living room, and tattered but warm blanket spread over him.

Mary and Joe stand nervously in the entryway to the kitchen, and Brian offers them a gentle smile. Mary steps forward, and Joe drifts a steaming cup of tea into her hands, before bringing another one of to Brian.

He takes a small sip, letting the warmth of the drink heat him from the inside out.

“Thank you, Joe,” Brian says politely, and Mary does another little one of her curtsies. Joe looks a little uncomfortable at the strange gesture of gratitude, and he looks to Brian with an apologetic smile before racing from the room.

“How are you feeling, Brian?” Mary asks as she settles in on the couch across from him, her bangs falling in front of her eyes as she blinks analytically at him. The shift from the prim and proper 1930's girl to Mary's natural wit is fairly jarring, but Brian finds himself used to it by now.

“Quite better, I must admit,” He finds himself taking a guarded tone, a loose attempt at shielding his inner thoughts from Mary's thoughtful gaze. “I've been getting my memory back in flashes.”

Mary's head tilts at that, and Brian scolds himself.

“Flashes? What kind of flashes?” She asks, her voice brimming with interest.

“Oh, I don't know, they're like dreams, I suppose?” 

Mary hums, and Brian finds that familiar fog grab a hold of his mind. A muttered curse scrapes past his lips.

He barely manages to set his mug down on the coffee table before the world shifts around him.

_Mary's voice sings a gentle tune as she runs a comb through Freddie's hair, her fingers running through each section to check for any more knots._

_The scene would be sickeningly domestic, if it weren't for the dark thread sewn through Freddie's lips. The homely vision fades away as Brian's eyes fall on the dark haired boy's face._

_He still remembers Roger sneaking into his room the night after Freddie's 'surgery', the blond's eyes dark and hollow. Brian lifted the covers without a second thought, and Roger practically flung himself into Brian's arms, and the older boy ignored the part of his mind telling him how wrong this was._

_Roger's sobs were short and stifled in the fabric of Brian's sleep shirt, and he could only run his hand over Roger's back comfortingly._

_“Why?” Roger finally spoke up after a few minutes of silence, and Brian wished he had an answer._

_“I don't know, Roggie.”_

_They fell asleep soaking in each others comfort, as their minds played Freddie's pained screams on loop in their ears._

He finds himself sick of all this waking up and falling asleep, though the ever changing locations keep him somewhat refreshed.

A new face leans above him, another older boy with thin brown hair and thick eyebrows. His eyes are closed in concentration, and only then does Brian notice the fingers pressed over his temples and forehead.

“This might feel a bit weird,” Is all the warning he gets before his mind goes off like a firecracker.

Memories- his mother's warm embrace, his father's fresh cologne- they all rush him in a devastating flood, and Brian finds himself being washed away. The water chokes him, and his lungs burn as he yearns for air. His eyes sting as the saltwater rushes them, and he realizes that this is how he dies. Drowning in his own mind.

A hand suddenly grabs his, their grip strong and determined as they pull him towards shore. The water rushes past the both of them- Roger's fruity shampoo, Freddie's infectious laugh- the hand gives another tug, and Brian breaks through the surface, his breath coming in heaves as he gulps down the much needed oxygen.

Peter's cautious gaze analyzes him as they climb onto a shore of pictures, images from Brian's past- the first deer he ever met, his first time playing a guitar- Peter grins at the memories.

“Come on, Mr. May, let's get you out of here.” Peter places his hands on Brian's face, much like the earlier position, and Brian finds himself falling down a hole that opens in the sand.

He hits the soft plush of his bed, and Peter pulls back suddenly, his face the picture of exhausted.

“There you go, Mr. May. Your long-term memory should be up and running now. The short-term stuff will come back in the next few days, so don't fret if you don't remember someone's name.” Peter gives a reassuring smile and Brian nods, feeling his own exhaustion settle deep in his bones.

Peter leaves after that, hopefully to get some rest of his own, and Brian leans back, his mind still whirling.

What the hell just happened?

His new long-term memory is infinitely helpful as he thinks back to his childhood, but not so much when he tries to understand the past few hours.

Just thinking about it now starts to give him a headache, a slight pounding blooming behind his eyes. He also realizes how parched he is, despite his near drowning experience that he had earlier.

The curtains are drawn, he notices, as he climbs from bed. He walks over to them slowly, and pulls them open to find the night sky glittering over head. The stars are just as pretty as he remembered them.

He makes his way to the kitchen, finding the house not as much of a maze this time around, which he is eternally grateful for. As he pours his cup of water, a soft melody drifts to his ears. It's a piano, grand, by the sound of it, and Brian finds himself enthralled by the music, his curiosity getting the better of him as he makes his way towards the sound, his glass abandoned on the counter.

As he stands in the archway to the music room, he finds Freddie sat on the piano bench, his fingers dancing over the keys with eloquent grace. The room is filled with the sound, and Brian feels a smile tug at the corner of his lips.

Only then does he notice a shadow move in the corner. 

Freddie keeps playing, and Brian moves to hide behind the doorway as the shadow reveals himself.

Paul- He thinks it's Paul, at least, he's still quite foggy with names- Paul approaches the piano slowly, his movements almost menacing.

Freddie still hasn't noticed.

Paul trails a few fingers over the shiny lid of the instrument, his thick gloves gliding smoothly across the black. Brian feels a wash of unease flood his system.

Paul finally comes to stand over Freddie's shoulder, his almost predatory gaze locked on the younger boy. Brian's mind tells hims to do something, to say something, but his feet and lips remain stuck.

Paul uses a rough grip to grab Freddie's chin, turning the boy towards him. Freddie's eyes widen in horror and fear, and Brian can see the utter terror in his brown eyes reflected in the pale moonlight.

Paul leans down and presses a bruising kiss to Freddie's lips, swallowing any cry for help the boy might have uttered, and Brian feels his stomach plummet. Something is wrong, Brian knows, but he doesn't know what. His eyes fall on Paul's gloves as they hold Freddie in place, and he can almost feel the memory pounding against the walls in his mind, begging to break free.

Freddie's posture suddenly changes, his shoulders dropping from their tense position, and part of Brian's mind screams at him from behind a locked door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me? ending this on a cliffhanger? it's more likely than you think
> 
> kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!!
> 
> and as always, please feel free to come scream with me on tumblr @ eveningmercury


	6. blackbird singing in the dead of night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter took so long to get out, i got kinda caught up in exams oops
> 
> this is definitely a more dialogue heavy chapter, which i'm not very used to, but i like to switch up the style of my writing and challenge myself skksks
> 
> hope y'all still enjoy!
> 
> tw for mild body horror
> 
> [title from the beatles' 'blackbird']

The garden is beautiful.

It's filled with flowers of all different colours, decorating the yard with a rainbow of nature, brightening up the cloudy day. The grass is soft and a vibrant green under his shoes, and he much prefers it to the stone path that Roger walks on beside him. The air outside is warm enough, though the clouds that cover the sky overhead provide a slight chill to the springtime weather.

Roger shifts beside him, and John can see the rigid tension in the blond's shoulders as he walks, his legs stiff and his footsteps heavy. John can't blame the teen for his behaviour. If something like this had happened to Veronica, he'd be furious. Roger's anger is completely normal, he assures himself, though he can't help the feeling of unease that trails up his spine as they walk along the path, just the two of them. After Roger's little display of his abilities earlier, he can't help but feel a little out of depth to comfort the spiteful teen that walks beside him.

He had never really though of the implications of Roger's peculiarity, and now, as he watches the boy with a careful eye, he wishes Roger had only showed the more flashy side of it; the one with the magic tricks and changing eye colours.

Earlier that evening, John had cut Freddie's stitches. His mind was still processing that part. Roger had also pushed Brian, the curly-haired boy with which Roger was supposedly best friends.

Beach- Miami? - had rushed him and Roger out of the room soon after Brian had woken up, a worried glint in his eye as he held Roger back. The blond had kicked and thrashed, yelling curses in a language John didn't recognize, his teeth clashing as he shouted. 

John had backed against the wall, watching in mild horror as Roger's teeth sharpened, his nails growing sharp and deadly. The blond had practically snarled, and yet Beach's hold on the struggling teen was unrelenting. He had finally reluctantly let go when they'd heard Freddie's worried voice called Brian's name quietly.

They had all turned back to face the pair, and John felt the air rush from the room as their gazes fell on Brian's prone form.

“What the hell did you do?” Roger's voice had been nothing but a cold whisper as he shoved Freddie back again, and John had instinctively moved to help the fallen man up. Freddie had just brushed him off, refusing John's outstretched hand, and he backed into the corner, out of sight.

“Uh, it's actually my doing, Roger,” Another voice had cut in, drawing them to the other entrance to the room, the one that opened into the dining hall. John had looked up to see a new boy, a sheepish smile on his face.

“He was getting his memories back too quickly, it would've hurt him.” The boy had explained, walking further into the room now that Roger seemed less hellbent on murdering everyone in a twenty foot radius. “I've put him into a sort of dream coma, to help him sort through his mind. I don't really know how well it will work, though, I might have to do some more in depth stuff, I'm not sure.”

John had blinked, deciding not to try and understand anything the boy had just said, instead just keeping his eyes trained on the ground.

Beach had then finally convinced Roger to go take a walk, in turn dragging John along. They'd wandered the halls for a bit, before John suggested getting a bit of fresh air.

And that's how he ended up here, with a distraught Roger at his side, as they wander the gardens behind the lodge. They walk in silence, no sound but that of birds chirping among the treetops, the leaves rustling in the light breeze.

“Phoebe better know what he's doing,” Roger says finally, his voice rough, though John can hear the underlying fear that laces his tone.

“Phoebe?” He doesn't recognize the name, though he was certain he had met all the residents of the lodge. 

“Peter, sorry. Phoebe was what Freddie called him.” Roger glances warily back at the house, a sad sort of longing in his eyes.

“Did you guys, you know,” John gestures vaguely, and Roger raises a brow. “Like, talk?”

Roger kicks mournfully at the grass, green staining the white soles of his pink converse. He sighs, turning to look up at the house.

“Freddie and I used to be best friends,” Roger says, a small huff of a laugh leaving his lips. John can't help the confused look he sends Roger, and the blond grins a bit manically. 

“I know, I know.” Roger shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, starting down the path that wove through the back gardens. “Doesn't seem like it now, huh?”

John says nothing, keeping his eyes trained on the colourful flora that surrounds them. He wants to offer some kind of comfort to the other boy, but no words come to mind. Roger needs to vent, and if he uses John as an outlet, so be it. 

He almost considers completely blocking out the conversation, just adding a few encouraging hums when he sees fit, but he knows he should get to know Roger's side of history. _The world isn't just right and wrong,_ his mother's voice reminds him softly in his head.

“When Freddie first showed up at Trident, we hit it off immediately. Couldn't tell you why, but there was just something so magnetizing about Fred, everyone absolutely loved him.” Roger's voice is laced with pure fondness, and John can't help it as he looks up to see the same adoration in Roger's eyes.

“You know, we had a band back at Trident. It was called Smile. Tim, the guy I mentioned back in the woods, he was the lead singer, and Brian played guitar.” John looks up at that. He's always wanted to be in a band, but his mother's stern gaze when he'd told her about that particular dream had put a lid on his ambitions fairly quickly.

“What'd you play?” He speaks up finally, and Roger glances at him with a dash of surprise, almost as though he'd forgotten John was there.

“I was the drummer. God, I haven't touched my drums in forever.” Roger sighs wistfully, his eyes focused on something in the far distance.

“What happened?” John asks after a moment of silence, and Roger quirks his head.

“With what?”

“You know, the band, Tim, Freddie.” He gestures loosely, and Roger hums.

“Well, Freddie came along and, John, you haven't lived till you hear that boy sing.” Roger laughs, twirling to face John, his eyes alight. “It's heaven in your ears, Deacon. It's orgasmic!”

John pulls a face, and Roger's smile begins to fade again as he falls back in step with John, the air starting to feel uncomfortably cold. John shivers, and though he attributes it to the chill, he knows it's the quick change in mood that unsettles him.

“I didn't want it to happen, you know,” Roger says quietly, and John has a feeling he knows what the blond is referring to.

“He made us watch- Ray Foster, the guy who ran our old time loop, he made us watch. Freddie had screamed and yelled and kicked and-” Roger's voice broke off, and John sees the blood drain from his face.

“Why didn't you stop him?” John regrets the question as soon as it leaves his lips, but Roger just deflates, looking John in the eye.

“God knows, I wanted to. I just- I couldn't. Foster would've bloody murdered me if I tried.” Roger tries to shrug it off, but John notices something haunting strewn in the statement.

“Why did you leave that loop?” If he was being honest, John didn't realize one could actually leave a loop, though Roger did have to leave this one to come get him. Maybe John will see his family again.

“Stuff happened, and Beach took us under his wing. Quite literally actually.” Roger smiles a bit, looking back at the house again.

“Literally?”

“Oh, it comes with being an ymbryne. Beach can turn into a bird,” Roger says flippantly, and John can't help but stare.

“How does becoming a bird have anything to do with manipulating time?”

Roger laughs again. “I try not to question the logistics of this whole peculiarity thing. It gets a bit old after a couple hundred years.”

“Couple hundred years?” John splutters, but Roger just walks ahead, and John can see his shoulders shaking with badly hidden laughter.

They approach a more open section of the garden, a secluded section of grass that was decorated with a small fountain in the middle. A small pond lies ahead of them, surrounded by cattails and covered in lily pads. Roger takes a seat at the edge of bank, pulling off his shoes.

“Come on, the waters always warm,” He says, dipping his toes in, and John hesitantly follows suit, pulling off his sneakers and socks.

Roger is right, the water feels amazing, not to cold, despite the slight chill in the air. He rolls up the cuffs of his jeans, before letting the water rise to his ankles.

“Bri and I come here all the time,” Roger says, splashing his feet a little in the water. “He likes to talk to the frogs, says they tell amazing stories. I don't know if they actually do, or he's just pulling my leg, though.” 

John smiles a bit, before biting his lip and looking at Roger quizzically.

“What's that look for, chameleon boy?” The blond snorts at the offended expression John knows he's sporting.

“What'd you mean by 'a couple hundred years'?” John asks, deciding to ignore the nickname.

Roger looks down at the water, his expression darkening. “I've been alive for far longer than you might imagine.” He says cryptically, and John frowns.

“When were you born?”

Roger pauses, opening his mouth to speak before closing it again. “1889, I think?”

John splutters. “What?”

“Hey, you don't age when you're in these loops, and even when you leave, it takes a few hours for the effects to kick in.” Roger shrugs, looking over at John with a forlorn expression.

“So, we're basically immortal?” John asks, his tone incredulous, yet Roger just laughs.

“There are rules, so, no, not really. Mostly to avoid putting kids in my situation, I suppose, but our old ymbryne didn't really follow said regulations.” Roger rolls his eyes a bit, kicking lightly at the water.

“Your situation?” John asks, looking up at the blond.

“I was scared to age, and now I've waited too long. If I leave, I die,” Roger states, his voice detached. “Usually, when a kid turns twenty-five, mentally, at least, even if their body hasn't actually aged, they leave the loop and go live their lives. Of course, there are exceptions. Like me and Brian for instance. He's from the thirties, so who knows how long he'd last in your time- 2011, right?”

John nods, frowning. 

“You know, Brian, the arse, promised he'd stay with with me until I was ready to leave, even if it meant he'd meet the same end as me.” Roger laughs, and John pretends he doesn't see the tears in the other boy's eyes.

“Why twenty-five, why not eighteen or twenty-one?” John asks, looking up from the grass he was picking at.

“That's about when your peculiarity fully develops, I think,” Roger answers simply, leaning back to stare at the cloudy sky.

“When did the others get here? Are they leaving soon?” He decides to try and get as much information out of Roger while he can, since the blond seems up to talking for now.

“Our loop is for special cases, though I think you may have been just thrown in for the ride.” Roger explains, and John gestures for him to continue. “Brian and I refuse to leave, Freddie can't leave now because of his lips, Paul is too dangerous to be let out on the general public, and Joe and Peter promised to stay with Freddie, since they were all close friends before the loops.”

“What about Mary?” John asks, and Roger's brows raise.

“She came a bit later than everyone else, along with Paul. I think her time is almost done, actually. If they decide to let Paul go, they'll be leaving within the next few months.” Rogers whistles softly. “We haven't had someone leave the group since Tim left, and that was decades ago.”

John nods again, his mind racing. He'll get to leave, and live his own life, he'd not going to be trapped here for rest of his life. He'll get to see Julie, his parents, and Veronica again. He can't help the utter giddiness that warms his gut, already ready for the next nine years to be over.

God, nine years is a long time.

Roger leads them back to the lodge, silent the entire way back. The sun has gone down almost completely now, evening settling over the woods that surround them.

Beach is sitting at the dining room table when they enter, his nose buried into a file of papers. He looks up as they walk in, his eyes scanning over Roger's face, probably checking to see if the teen was still angry. Seemingly satisfied with what he found, Beach smiles at them, before his eyes drift over to John.

“Oh, John, would you mind taking a seat in the living room? I want to go over house rules and all that introductory business, since things have settled down a bit.” Beach shuffles the papers he'd been working on, before offering John a tired smile.

John nods, turning on his heel to head back to the living room. Roger places a hand on his shoulder, though he doesn't turn John back around. 

“Thank you,” Roger whispers in his ear, and John doesn't get the chance to ask what for before the blond has disappeared down the hall. He stands there for a moment, staring after the boy, before making his way to the living room.

He sits on the old flowery couch in silence for a handful of minutes before Freddie walks into the room, his expression slightly startled at seeing John there. John smiles gently at him, trying to seem at least a bit reassuring.

Freddie sits down hesitantly on the couch next to him, careful to put at least a foot of space in between them. His hair looks like it hasn't been brushed in days, leaving in falling in loose tangled curls over his shoulders. There's thick white gauze wrapped around his jaw, covering his lips and the base of his nose like a surgeon's mask, and for a brief moment, John wonders if they stitched his lips back together again.

Except, Freddie reaches up to slowly peel away the bandages, the tape pulling at his skin. John winces, but Freddie's expression remains unbothered as he rips it from his skin, revealing the gruesome state of his lips. John feels his stomach lurch, and he knows his expression probably looks mighty disgusted, but he can't bring himself to do anything about it.

Freddie's lips are surrounded by dark purple bruises, a hint of yellow and blue mixing in like watercolour on canvas. Dried blood dots the holes where the thread used to be woven through his skin, and John bites his tongue to hold back a gag. Freddie's cheeks flush a hot red, though he still meets John's gaze with steely eyes, and John quickly looks away, silently scolding himself for staring.

“Thank you for coming, boys.” Beach's voice finally cuts through the uncomfortable silence that had fallen over the pair of them. He pulls a chair closer to them, setting a steaming mug of tea onto the side table as he sits. He heaves a soft sigh, crossing his hands in his lap.

“Now, I'd like to apologize, John, for not being here when you arrived. I'm afraid I'd been called away on an urgent matter, though I hope Roger made your transition as smooth and comfortable as possible.” The elder man says earnestly, looking at John with kind eyes.

“S'alright,” He murmurs, his gaze focusing back on his hands.

Beach looks at him for a second, before turning his attention over to Freddie.

“How are you feeling, Freddie?” 

The boy in question stays silent for a moment, before he begins to move his hands in strange gestures- sign language, John's brain helpfully supplies.

Beach frowns, his forehead wrinkling, and for a second, John wonders if the older man even understands the language himself.

“Are your lips keeping you from speaking?” Beach asks, and John shakes off the earlier assumptions as Freddie begins to sign again. Beach had probably taught the boy how to sign, as it didn't seem likely that the man from their old loop- Foster, was it?- would have.

“Are you in pain?” Beach looks over Freddie with concerned eyes.

 _Of course he's in pain,_ John thinks bitterly, watching as Freddie moves to sign again. John had never learned any sign language, never had any reason to, and he finds himself beginning to regret that fact.

Beach leans back, taking a sip of his tea. He sets the cup down and pushes himself from his chair.

“I'll go fetch you some new bandages, and some ointment, alright? And, John, I wrote up a little list of things for you to know, so I'll get that too.”

John nods, murmuring a small 'thank you' as Beach leaves the room.

A blanket of silence falls over the remaining pair, and Freddie begins to hum quietly, a soft tune that John finds vaguely familiar. His brain struggles for the song, the name on the tip of his tongue.

“What song is that?” He asks before he can stop himself, and Freddie's eyes dart up, the humming cutting off abruptly.

“Oh, just, uh-” Freddie hesitates, and John wonders if he's trying to remember the song's name himself.

“A Beatles song,” He says finally, and John frowns.

“Which one?”

Freddie sighs, looking down.

“ _Let it be._ ”

John nods, his mind instantly dropping the subject. Freddie looks at him in mild horror, though John can't quite pinpoint why. The older boy shakes his head, and John can't tell if it was aimed towards John or himself.

Another bout of silence falls over the pair, and John swallows as he looks around the room. The decor is fairly old fashioned, with flower covered wallpaper and leather furniture. A wooden cabinet filled with various china rest in the corner, next to a dusty oak bookshelf.

“Thank you, dear,” Freddie says suddenly, and John raises a brow, both at the petname and the statement itself.

“For what?”

“This,” Freddie gestures loosely to his face, and John's lips form a quiet 'Oh'.

“You're welcome,” He smiles politely, and Freddie turns away again.

“I'm John Deacon, by the way.” He says, almost surprising himself, “I don't think we were ever properly introduced.”

“Freddie Mercury.” 

“That's a cool name,” John says, a bit awkwardly, and Freddie laughs lightly.

“Thank you, John.” Freddie looks pensive for a second, yet he says nothing.

John brushes a loose curl from his forehead, briefly wondering how terrible he must look right now. He hasn't slept in almost two days, and while he did shower earlier that evening, he still felt all around uncomfortably unclean. His hair has probably dried all over the place, since he hadn't bothered trying to tame his curls.

“Do you have any nicknames? John is a bit boring, I'm afraid.” Freddie breaks the silence again, and John decides not to take offense at the statement.

“Uh, I didn't really have any back home, but Roger called me Deacy when I first arrived, I think.” He purposely doesn't mention the 'chameleon boy' thing that Roger had said earlier, not wanting that name to catch on.

“Deacy. I like it. Quite charming, don't you think?” Freddie hums appreciatively, drumming his fingers lightly on the armrest of the couch.

“I suppose so, yeah,” John replies, nodding lightly. Deacy. It did have a nice ring to it. 

“So, Deacy, what's your story? How'd you come about this miserable place?” Freddie turns to look at him, and John forces his eyes away from the other boys lips.

“My dad brought me here,” John says simply, shrugging.

Freddie chuckles softly. It's a nice sound. “What's your peculiarity, darling?”

“When I'm afraid, I blend into my surroundings, like a chameleon,” John explains, looking at his hands.

Freddie quirks his head, but says nothing as his eyes study John, who can't help but shift under the attention.

“What about you?” John asks, hoping to break Freddie's scrutinizing gaze.

“What, my peculiarity?” Freddie clarifies, and if anything, his eyes grow sharper, and underlying hint of some emotion John can't identify.

“Yeah.” John nods, focusing back on his hands.

“Well, if were going on similes, I suppose the closest thing would be a siren, for me,” Freddie says thoughtfully, fidgeting with the ends of his hair.

“The mermaids that lure horny sailors to their deaths?” John asks incredulously, a small smirk growing on his lips.

Freddie laughs, wincing slightly as a smile tugs at his lips. “Yes, them. They used their song to enchant the pirates, right? Well, unlike them, I don't exactly have to sing to enchant people, though my singing is pretty spectacular, if I do say so myself.”

“I've heard,” John murmurs, and Freddie looks at him quizzically.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, Roger was telling me about it. He said it was orgasmic.” He cringes slightly as he says it, and Freddie smiles sadly.

“He's not too bad himself. That boy has an astounding falsetto.” Freddie looks down at his nails, picking lightly at the black paint that covers them.

“You both seem to care about each other, so what's with all the bad blood?” John asks bluntly, and Freddie's eyes flick up to meet his.

“I'm afraid it isn't that simple, my dear Deacy.” Freddie sighs softly, shaking his head.

“Why not?” John presses, his frown deepening

“There is much you don't know, and much I do not wish to tell.” Freddie says, “Not tonight, at least. I'm quite a bit sore, I must admit.”

“Oh, right, sorry,” John says, his gaze flickering to Freddie's bruised lips.

Freddie just smiles at him, inclining his head slightly as if to say 'It's alright'.

“Seems you two are getting along swell?” Beach says with a light tone as he enters the room, a bundle of papers in one hand. John smiles, a bit bashfully, and Freddie's eyes look up, a lightness in them that John hadn't seen before.

“Now, John, I'm sure Roger has given you the tour, correct?” Beach hands him the packets, one by one. 

“This is a map, this one is the schedule for meals and waking times and such, this is the chore schedule, since I can't exactly take care of this entire house by myself, I'm sure. Oh, and here is your class schedule. I'll be teaching all of the subjects, and please don't be afraid to ask me if you have any questions about this sort of home-school program, alright?” 

John nods, a bit frazzled by the load of information. He flicks through the papers, scanning over their contents quickly.

“Thank you, Mr. Beach,” John says politely, and Beach smiles in return.

“Freddie, I've prepared clean bandages in the bathroom, if you'll kindly join me?” Beach turns to the boy in question, who nods and stands up.

John watches them leave, his brow furrowing when Freddie pauses at the doorway.

“I like you, John Deacon,” Freddie says, before disappearing down the hall.

 _I like you too, Freddie,_ he thinks, a small smile blooming on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow no cliffhanger this time am i okay???
> 
> hope y'all enjoyed this chapter, and as always, please feel free to ask questions, send requests, or just scream with me on tumblr @ eveningmercury
> 
> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!
> 
> love y'all, and thank you for all the support on this, i've having so much fun writing it!


	7. your candle burned out long before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so so so so so sorry for how long this chapter took, but i hope y'all enjoy it nonetheless :)
> 
> TW: non consensual kissing, manipulation
> 
> [chapter title from elton john's 'candle in the wind']

The rain is falling upwards.

The water curls up his face in streams, tickling his cheeks as it rises. He stares up at the grim sky, watching as the clouds swirl at a record speed, rolling over each other as they start to disappear. He really didn't think anything would surprise him anymore, not after everything he's seen at this godforsaken house, and yet _the rain is falling upwards_ , since apparently the laws of physics don't apply here.

Roger smiles at him, his blond hair darkened by the showers that had started earlier that evening. The showers that were now going _towards the sky_.

Beach stands a few feet away, a golden pocket watch clutched in his hand, his gaze focused as he stares up, not even blinking as the water rises past his face. 

They stand under the wide eaves that cover the porch, the rest of the children whispering among themselves. Freddie is nowhere to be seen, neither is Paul, and John ignores the wash of unease that curls in his stomach at that thought.

They sky morphs above them, turning from the stormy gray to a bright blue as the the sun rises again, passing over them like a rainbow, before it begins to set again, the stars sparkling in the now cloudless night sky. 

“And that, John, is what Beach's peculiarity does.” John can practically hear the grin in Roger's voice as the blond slings an arm around his shoulder. John finally pulls his gaze from the darkness that stretches above them, looking over at Roger. He can only imagine what his face looks like now, his mind still reeling to process what he just saw.

“Isn't it just fab?” Roger asks, his eyes fixed on the sky above them, a gleam of wonder dancing in the bright pink.

“Fab?” John looks over at him, smothering a smile.

“Hey, when you've been around as long as I have, you pick up a few things.” Roger says defensively, crossing his arms, but John can see a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

The banter is a nice distraction from the whirlwind of a day he's had, and the familiar wit reminds him of Julie, with her sharp tongue and even sharper mind. His heart drops a bit at the thought of his sister, away in some far off land. Home has never felt so unattainable. 

His mind drifts to thoughts of his family, and he feels a swirl of nausea in his stomach. Do they miss him as much as he misses them? His mother's cold gaze flashes before his eyes, and he swallows thickly. Did she even care that she wasn't going to see her son again for nine years? He pushes the thoughts of his mother from his head, and Veronica's warm brown eyes replace the degrading glare that haunts him. Veronica. Does she even know where he is? Half of him wants to believe that his father told her the truth, about John's power and where he is, but another part of him hopes he didn't. He couldn't help but here Veronica's voice whisper coldly in his mind, _you're a monster, John-_

Beach ushers the children inside and John follows numbly, his mind far gone in a world that doesn't even exist yet.

-//-

John feels like he could sleep for three days straight

The adrenaline of the day has finally stopped coursing through his blood, leaving a bone-deep exhaustion in its wake. His feet drag like weights across the carpet as he shuffles to his room, blinking himself awake. He fumbles with the doorknob, the fog covering his mind making his hands shake.

He freezes when his gaze lands on his skin.

It ripples, like a stones being skipped on a pond, rolling in small waves over his fingers. His stomach lurches at the sight, and the wash of unease tingling up his spine doubles as his body starts to blend into the patterned wallpaper, symbols of flowers appearing on his arms like tattoos. He whirls around, and finds himself face to face with Paul, who stares at him in awe.

 _Run_ , his body screams at him, some unknown sense of fear sending his peculiarity into overdrive.

His brain finally catches up, and he throws the door open, slamming it closed as soon as he's inside the room. His shaking hands fumble with the lock, and as soon as it clicks, his knees give out under him. He crawls back, his nails digging into the carpet, and he startles when his back hits the wooden bed-frame.

He takes a moment to catch his breath, and his skin starts to shift back to normal. Paul's footsteps fade down the hall, and he feels a sigh of relief breeze past his lips. His skin tingles, and he can barely feel his fingers, but his mind reels as it fights to understand what just happened.

His peculiarity had warned him of some sort of danger, like his own personal spider sense.

Paul was dangerous?

John's brain finally pushes all the flashes of Paul that John has seen to the forefront of his mind, the head tilts, the lingering stares, and John swallows nervously.

He never did ask Roger why Paul had to wear the gloves.

John pulls himself off the floor slowly, the carpet digging into his palms as he stands. He reaches for the water glass that was placed on his bedside table, and he takes a long sip, relishing in the cool relief it brought to his burning throat.

He hasn't drank much since he's been here, nothing but the glass of water Roger had offered him earlier that day. God, he's only been here one day.

He falls numbly onto the bed, his fingertips tingling as he slowly regains his senses. His mind runs at a mile a minute, and he can feel the pounding begin behind his eyes. He rolls to his side, reaching blindly for the bag he brought with him. He pulls out a bottle of Advil, dumping two capsules into his shaking palm. He dry swallows the pills, not bothering to grab the glass of water. 

His body sinks like lead into the mattress as the heavy exhaustion settles back into his bones. He lets his thoughts drift into nothing as sleep curls around his mind-

A loud knock sends his eyes flying open, and he shoots up from the bed, his vision going fuzzy for a moment. He turns to the window, towards the sound, and he feels his heart stop in his chest as he sees a face. 

The pure fear soon melts away to anger as he recognizes Roger's pink eyes blinking back at him, a dopey grin on his face.

He quickly moves to open the window, huffing as his shaking hands fumble with the latch. As he slides the window up, one of Roger's arms that grip the ledge gets dislodged, and John feels time freeze as Roger struggles to catch himself quickly catches himself.

“Roger, what the hell are you doing?” He finally comes to his senses and scrambles for one of Roger's arms, quickly pulling him from the ledge. Roger falls into the room, and John stumbles back, blinking rapidly.

“Nice to see you too, John,” Roger says as he pulls himself up from the floor, brushing off his clothes. John swears he does see a hint of relief in Roger's eyes, as if he was expecting John to have not actually been in his room. It's odd, but John's mind is far too tired to analyze it further.

The strange look is only in Roger's eyes for a second before a mask seems to fall over his face, his expression turning to one of mock hurt as he looks at John's exasperated expression with a quiet huff.

“Can I help you?” John finally asks, sitting back on the bed as the exhaustion sets in again.

“Not exactly-”

“Then leave me alone, please. I want to sleep.” He falls back on the bed, his chest heaving in deep breaths.

“Why are you here, Roger?” He asks again, and even his voice feels tired as the words sluggishly leave his mouth.

“I just wanted to check up on you?” Roger's voice is hesitant, and John can tell he's lying by the way his voice lilts at the end, as if asking a question, though the sentence in itself was meant as a statement. “I know this has been a lot to take in,” Roger adds, and John can't help but snort.

“Couldn't this have waited till morning?”

Roger doesn't answer, and John frowns, before sighing quietly. He let's his eyes fall shut, and the world fades from around him, his mind plunging into a welcome abyss.

-//-

He wakes up to the sound of a distant alarm clanging, like the church bells that echo near his school. He almost thinks that the past few days have just been a horrifying dream, and yet sunlight streams through the open window, a vast forest lying beyond the glass panes. A slight breeze billows the unfamiliar curtains, and John can't help the heavy feeling that settles in his chest as he recognizes his new room at the lodge. As he untangles his legs from the blanket that covers them, he frowns. He never grabbed a blanket before falling asleep.

He wanders out of his room, keeping his steps quiet as he wanders the halls of the lodge. He jumps when Mary steps through the door of what he assumes is her room, her white nightgown and tired eyes giving her a ghostly impression. She smiles at John, before scaling down the steps to the main floor, her footsteps completely silent. He swallows, giving himself a moment to calm his pounding heart, before following her down.

The sound of voices reach his ears as he makes his way to the dining room, only then realizing that he's still in his clothes from yesterday. A slight rush of self-consciousness floods him, but he shoves it to the back of his mind.

The table is already set, and Joe bustles around, setting bowls of fresh fruits on the table, before disappearing back into the kitchen. John quietly takes a seat, keeping his eyes low. The rest of the children talk among themselves, their voices blending together in the background as John scans the room.

Freddie watches Jim, the gardener, from across the table, his eyes soft and bright, and John feels a small smile tugging at his lips. Jim's white t-shirt is speckled with dirt, and John assumes he'd been out in the garden already that morning. Messy brown hair falls over the older boy's forehead, the ends curling slightly. His cheeks are dusted a light pink as he laughs with Joe and Peter, a kind shine in his eyes. John doesn't blame Freddie for staring.

Freddie subtly brushes his hair from his face, and Jim finally meets his gaze, smiling politely in return. Out of the corner of his eye, John also notices Paul's expression darken, his lips pressing into a thin line as he watches Freddie. John swallows, turning his attention back to his meal and ignoring the gooseflesh that rises on his skin.

He stirs the food around on his plate, picking at it hesitantly with his fork. A heavy sense of uneasiness has settled in his stomach, completely wiping away his appetite. He forces himself to take a bite of toast to avoid raising suspicion, swallowing thickly.

He can feel someones eyes burning into his skin, and his heart-rate starts to pick up. He takes another bite of his toast, chewing unnaturally quickly. He closes his eyes as the uneasiness curls into pain, a strange pulsing in his temples. 

When a sudden silence falls over the table like a blanket, John pries his eyes open, wincing as light floods his vision.

His breath stutters as his eyes readjust, focusing on the wooden patterns that paint his arms, matching perfectly to the oak table that rests under them. He jumps up, and the chair clatters to the floor beneath him, but he can't bring himself to care. His eyes lock with Paul's, who's expression shows nothing but wonder as he looks over him almost clinically. John almost feels dirty under the gaze, and he wants nothing more but to rub his skin raw with soap.

Hands grab his shoulders, and he throws himself away from the touch, a sharp inhale scraping past his lips.

“John, hey, it's just me, it's just Roger,” The voice breaks through the panic in his mind as he meets Roger's concerned gaze, his breathing far too shallow for his own liking.

“Right, yeah,” He says, taking a deep breath, making sure to exhale slowly. “Sorry.”

“You alright?” Roger asks, his voice careful as he leads John from the dining room, away from the prying eyes that stare daggers into his back. 

He never liked being the center of attention, never needed that kind of validation. He had a few people he cared for, a few people who's opinions he cared for, and that was enough for him. He was much happier blending in the background, unseen and unnoticed, in his own little world. His ability would be quite helpful with that if only he could control it.

“Here, sit down, mate,” Roger's hands guide him carefully onto one of the floral sofas.

“Thanks.” John's voice is barely above a whisper, but Roger smiles nonetheless.

They sit in silence, Roger acting as a steady presence at John's side. The old grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticks loudly, and John focuses on the even rhythm, aligning his breathing with it.

Footsteps echo down the hall up ahead, and John looks up to see Freddie, followed by Paul. Paul's hand rests almost possessively on the small of Freddie's back, and John can practically feel the tension rise in Roger's body. The blond straightens from his position next to John, his shoulders tight and his lips pressed in a firm line.

“Roger,” Paul greets passively, and John almost doesn't notice Freddie's flinch as Paul speaks. Except, he does, and his stomach curls.

“Prenter,” Roger says in return, his voice dripping with disgust. John swallows, his eyes darting to the door to the dining room, praying to see Beach walk through it to diffuse the situation before it escalates, but the doorway remains empty.

“Freddie and I were just going to-” Paul gazes down on Freddie, a small smirk on his face, “-take care of a few things.”

The implication of the sentence sends a small chill over John's spine, and he unconsciously takes a step back. The uneasy feeling in his stomach as returned, and he knows he needs to leave _now_ , but his body stays frozen.

Freddie curls more into Paul's side as Roger rises to his feet, and the blond's fists curl tightly.

“Freddie, what's going on here?” Roger's voice is quiet and even-toned, and that scares John more than anything.

“What do you mean by that, Roger?” Paul answers instead, his grip around Freddie's waist tightening almost imperceptibly.

Roger's eyes look more red than pink now, darkened with a simmering anger. “I asked Freddie-”

" _Just leave me alone._ " Freddie's voice shakes, and his hand clamps over his mouth as soon as the words leave his lips, just a second too late.

His eyes widen in horror, and John feels his mind go blank.

~//~

The house is eerily silent, and Jim finds himself growing more and more uneasy. He slowly sets his book aside, marking his page with a pressed flower. The floor creaks under his feet as he stands, and the sound sends a chill down his spine. The oak archway that stretches proudly over the hall seems even more daunting in the utter silence, the large space seeming to suck the life from the room.

He hears another creak along the wooden floorboards, the sound drifting from somewhere down the hall, and he quickly follows the noise, swallowing the lump trying to form in his throat. A hollow sense of dread settles in his stomach as he rounds the corner to the living room, only to stop cold in his tracks.

Freddie stands frozen, his lips moving to the shapes of words, yet no noise comes out. Jim can see his hands trembling, and his chest heaves in shallow breaths. Jim's moving forward, in front of Freddie, before he can really process what he's doing, but some instinct in him had kicked into gear.

He recognizes the signs, probably from his sister Anna. This happened to her sometimes, and she'd lose herself in her head, unaware of the world around her. Their mother would always sit her down, speaking to her in hushed words-

“I'm going to touch you now, Freddie, is that all right?” Jim keeps his voice soft and controlled, watching Freddie carefully. Freddie nods, the motion slight and almost invisible, but Jim catches it. He guides Freddie backwards with a careful hand on his shoulder, settling him on the couch.

Sometimes, Anna wouldn't be able to breathe during her attacks, and she would be left gasping for air, her hands clawing at her chest. Seeing her in that state was rare, but it did happen once, when they were out with the baby of the family, little Jack. It had been just the three of them, on the way to the market to pick up some fresh foods to last them the couple days that were left before the harvest of their own crops. He wasn't quite sure what had set her off, though it could have been anything; a sound, a smell, a colour. Jim didn't really dwell on that part. A stranger had come by to help them, apparently recognizing what was happening from experience with a friend of theirs. They had placed Anna's hand on their own chest, instructing her to follow their breathing-

Freddie's chest heaves, his breathing far too quick as he gasps for air. Jim, keeping his movements slow, carefully picks up Freddie's hand, placing the other boy's palm flat against his sternum. Freddie's eyes look up at him, wide and filled openly with fear, and Jim feels his heart skip a beat. 

“Freddie,” he starts, and the boy in question curls away slightly, “I need you to follow my breathing, alright? Just listen and feel.”

He inhales deeply, and he can see Freddie struggle to do the same.

“That's it, just follow me.” He keeps his voice steady, despite the shakiness that he feels.

It takes almost ten minutes before Freddie's breathing evens to a steadier pace, at least enough for him to speak.

“Thank you,” Freddie whispers, his voice hoarse and almost inaudible. Jim just hums in response, his mind focused on Freddie's breathing. Colour starts returning to the other boy's face, his cheeks flushing a healthy pink.

“Do you want some water?” Jim asks, and Freddie nods slowly. Jim begins to stand up from his crouched position in front of the couch when Freddie's hand darts and grabs his arm, holding him securely in place. The utter vulnerability in the touch sends a chill up Jim's spine as Freddie's dark eyes stare up at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, unshed tears seeming to burn them. Jim feels his heart flip as he sees the utter desperation in Freddie's open expression, loneliness turning the beautiful brown eyes that Jim was so used to seeing into nothing but a reflection of the torment in Freddie's mind. 

“I don't want to be alone,” Freddie says as he pulls himself to his feet, using Jim's arm as leverage. Jim almost flinches at the bluntness behind the haunting sentence.

“Alright.” Is all he says in response, and they walk to the kitchen in silence. The house seems to stretch on forever as they navigate the hall, the lack of sound pressing in on Jim's mind. He'd never liked silence much, far too accustomed to having children running around and wreaking havoc. His brothers and sisters never let a room stay silent.

The kitchen is thankfully empty, the only sign of Joe being an open recipe book on the counter, turned to a page on some pasta dish. Perhaps tonight's dinner, Jim muses.

He opens one of the cupboards to fetch a glass as Freddie's sits at the small table in the corner. The room is still far too quiet for Jim's liking, and the sound of the tap's rushing water only eases him momentarily. 

He gives Freddie the glass, watching warily as he lifts it to his scarred lips with shaking hands. 

He was never in their old loop, the one with Foster. He'd only heard whispers of stories as the children huddled around the fire, their voices quiet, almost scared. It haunted him to think about what may have happened to them. He only knew what trauma had been inflicted physically, and as he heard Mary's shrill screams in the middle of the night, he could only imagine what had happened to their minds.

“Have you ever found a four-leaf clover?” Freddie's voice draws him back to reality, and he finds himself blinking in confusion.

“Pardon?”

“A four-leaf clover, have you ever found one?” Freddie repeats, his eyes trained on his glass, which now Jim recognizes as being painted with the aforementioned plant.

“No, I haven't,” He replies honestly, watching Freddie carefully. The other boy merely hums in acknowledgment, his eyes never leaving the glass in his hand.

“Have you?” Jim asks, if only to keep the room from falling into that suffocating silence.

“I'm afraid not,” Freddie's lips curl into an almost wistful smile, and Jim feels his heart skip a beat.

“I've always wanted to, though.” Freddie adds, “The first time I heard about them, I spent almost an hour in a field trying to find one.”

Jim laughs, softly, and the look Freddie's gives him, full of amusement and _something else_ , warms him from the inside out.

~//~

Paul is waiting for him when he walks in the room. He always is.

After Jim had calmed him down from his _embarrassing_ moment of weakness, the two of them had gone in search of Miami, who had helped them find Paul, Roger and John, the latter of which didn't seem too bothered by Freddie's careless actions. Roger, on the other hand, was furious, but Miami had rushed him from the room before things could escalate.

Roger's words still scraped in the back of his mind, taunting him with his old friend's voice. God, he missed Roger. Missed the days they spent together creating whatever their minds could come up with, Brian at their side with his sharp wit and kind heart. He missed Roger's passion, his flare, everything that made him _him_.

But that was a thing of the past, only a distant memory now, like a pleasant dream his mind refuses to let go of.

Paul stands and approaches him, a sickening smile on his face. Freddie backs away, despite the small voice in the back of his mind that tells him not to.

Paul's smile falters, falling into a frown.

“Is there something wrong, Freddie?” Paul's voice almost comes off like a warning, and Freddie swallows.

Roger's voice is suddenly in his head, encouraging him with that bright grin of his. Brian stands beside him, smiling fondly as he places a steadying hand on Freddie's shoulder. Even John- Deaky, is with them, his eyes alight in that subtle way of his.

“Yes, there is, actually,” His voice is strong, and he feels is resolve hardening further.

Paul's eyes darken, and he steps closer. Freddie stays rooted in place, challenging. He can feel his heart beating in his chest, its pace quickening.

“And what would that be?” Paul takes another step, his gaze looking down on Freddie.

 _Come on, Fred,_ Roger says, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“This, whatever this is, needs to stop. You're using your peculiarity against me, and-” His voice trails off as Paul's hand trails along his cheek, gently cupping his face. He doesn't pull away from the touch, and Roger's voice fades.

“No one else cares for you like I do.” 

The words sting, like ice and salt on his skin. He hates the truth he finds in them, hates the poison that they bring. They curl in his mind like unkempt ivy-

He thinks of Jim, out in his garden among the enchanting colours of nature, and yet, Freddie finds Jim to be the most beautiful thing out there.

He likes Jim. Jim is nice, almost soft, for lack of a better word. None of the sharp edges he was so used to, no biting words that carved themselves into his heart. Jim is the kind of person he could try to live a picket-fence life with; a nice home near a lake, with a grand garden in the back, and a homey little town just down the lane, with a pub where he would perform on Friday nights.

Except, that wasn't the life he had always dreamed of. Far too boring, for his taste. Although, he would never be able to live a normal life like that anyways, so why dream?

“Freddie, you're happy with me,” Paul says, his eyes and voice pleading, and Freddie half expects him to fall to his knees and beg for a mercy that Freddie will never give him.

“You need me,” Paul adds, though something in his voice tells Freddie that Paul already knows he's lost. And yet, Paul knows Freddie in a way none of the other kids do, and he prays they never will. Paul has felt the absolute crushing loneliness that presses in on Freddie's mind, has taken the darkest parts of Freddie's heart and twisted and curled them till Freddie didn't even recognize himself.

He feels nothing but utter disgust and hatred as he meets Paul's piercing gaze. In the blink of an eye, something shifts in Paul's eyes, the control that darkened them melting into a burning rage, and Freddie stumbles back, his heart pounding.

“Think of what I know, Farrokh Bulsara,” Paul says, his voice calm on the surface, but Freddie can hear the threat that swims underneath, like a shark following the scent of blood. He can't help but wince at the sound of his old name, an all too familiar panic wrapping around his heart.

“Don't,” He says, his voice dangerously quiet, and Paul takes another step forward. A gloved hand traces along Freddie's cheek, and he curses his body as he leans into the touch. Paul's fingers glide along his jaw, coming to rest under Freddie's chin.

Freddie doesn't move as Paul leans forward and presses a sickeningly gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. Freddie feels something inside him break, and the walls that he tried so hard to build come crashing down. His feels his mind slip away, till it isn't just his anymore, and his and Paul's emotions blend together. Nausea swirls in his stomach, and Paul's mouth moves against his as he remains frozen.

“No,” He whispers against Paul's lips, and he can taste the smoke in the other man's breath. He almost gags, but the feeling of contact that takes away the ever present loneliness, overrules the rest of his body. Warmth tingles at the tips of his fingers, and it settles heavily at the base of his stomach.

Paul finally pulls away, his fingers still tangled in Freddie's curls. He cocks his head slightly, looking at Freddie with something akin to pity, and he brushes his thumb across Freddie's lips, over the scars that surround them.

“You were more beautiful with them sewn shut." Paul shakes his head, his fingers pressing harder as he traces his lips. Freddie feels an anger boil inside himself, and blinks as he realizes its directed towards himself.

“Come, now.” Paul takes him by the wrist, and only then does Freddie realize that the other boy has taken off his gloves. He relishes in the feeling of Paul's skin against his, and he leans into the touch, letting the high of his and Paul's emotions mixing together wash over him.

In his haze, he doesn't notice the boy that stands frozen in the doorway, in a pair of grass-stained overalls, a four-leaf clover cradled carefully in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this a cliffhanger? i think it is lmao oops
> 
> anyways,, hope y'all enjoyed!! comments and kudos are very much appreciated, and feel free to send requests or just scream with me over on my tumblr @ eveningmercury !!


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